Page 12 of His Son's Ex

I slip past a row of stunned guests, head down, heart jackhammering.

My heels outpace the string quartet, each step a countdown.

To the corridor.

To the elevator.

To freedom.

To whatever sanity I can claw back.

Or so I think.

My heart’s still pounding from what just happened in that ballroom.

My stomach churns with nerves. The elevator looms ahead, its gold doors shining from the chandelier above us. I press the button repeatedly, as if that might speed things up.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, jabbing it again.

And then—that feeling again. Heat. Tension. Like I’m being watched.

I turn.

He’s there.

Dante fucking Bellacino.

Like he’s summoned by the panic in my pulse.

Like fate just keeps throwing us together until I finally get the message.

His eyes lock on mine.

They drag down my body in a slow, deliberate rake.

And now that I know who he is, that gaze hits differently.

Heavier. Darker. Hungrier.

Heat slams into me—wicked and unrelenting.

My thighs clench. A slow, aching throb builds between them.

I should be backing away.

He’s my ex’s father, for God’s sake.

But I don’t.

I want him closer.

Which probably makes me clinically insane.

“Are you okay?” His voice—low, rough—belongs in dark bedrooms and sin-soaked dreams.

The doors open.

We step in.

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